


Bedhead and Shadows

by Crollalanza



Series: Cats [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bromance, Bullying, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third years dislike Kozume Kenma, but he copes because he knows Kuro has his back. But then Kuro’s suspended for a week, and Kenma has to find a way of dealing with them on his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedhead and Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for kuroken-weekend on tumblr. The prompt was 'Hair'.

“Bedhead.” The word came unbidden from his lips, and Kenma wasn’t quite sure why he’d answered. He rarely spoke to people, not even those in the volleyball team, not even if Kuro was around. And that afternoon, Kuro wasn’t there, having been suspended from club activities for a week.

Everyone swivelled around and stared at him. Hashimoto, the third year Setter and Vice-Captain, started forwards and leant into Kenma.

“What did you say, little shadow?”

Kenma licked his lips, already regretting that he’d spoken, regretting that he’d even turned up, had ever agreed to join the stupid club. (“It’ll be fun!” Kuro had insisted. But it wasn’t.)

“Yeah, what did you say, Kozume?” Ishida, the large Middle Blocker, asked.

“Uh ... bedhead,” Kenma repeated, mumbling into his hair.

“Huh? Speak up!”

Swallowing, Kenma tipped his chin up. He didn’t want to show fear, because he knew that’s what Hashimoto wanted. He wasn’t even sure he was scared – not really – at least he wasn’t scared physically of Hashimoto, even though he was taller and heavier, but he hated his sharp tongue and the way his words were calculated to undermine Kenma at every opportunity. (‘Kuroo’s shadow’ was just the latest in his long line of nicknames for him.)

“You asked why Kuroo’s hair is so spiky,” he replied, staring directly into Hashimoto’s eyes and wondering how they could look so cold when brown was supposed to be a warm colour. “It’s bedhead.”

There was a pause, a collective silence across the room. Hashimoto smirked, and all at once, Kenma knew he’d said the wrong thing, and now the attention would increase.

“How would you know that, Kozume-kun? Got something to share with us all about the wonderful Tetsurou Kuroo, have ya?”

“He’s my fr-”

“Boyfriend? Is that right?” Hashimoto laughed. “Well, we always thought you were weird, so I guess it explains why Tetsurou sticks up for ya – ‘specially if he is stickin’ it up ya.”

Someone, Yaku, Kenma thought, cleared his throat. “We need to be out of here in ten minutes.”

“Yes, we do.” That time it was Kai, his voice joining a low hubbub as the second and first years became uncomfortable.

“Yeah, well clear up then,” Hashimoto yelled over his shoulder. “Captain’s not here tonight so I’m in charge. Not you, Kozume.”

 _Really?_ Kenma kept his face straight because Hashimoto would never willingly let him off anything.

“You can’t clear up, ‘cause you’re too weak. So ...’nother lap. Flying falls. NOW!”

He was ready to leave at that point. Ready to walk out of volleyball club and not come back because he didn’t enjoy any of it enough to put up with the crap, but one thing stopped him: Hashimoto wanted him to quit.

That and he’d promised Kuro he’d stay.

He stood up, shrugged a little and started a lap, falling to the ground, arms outstretched. The way he’d seen Yaku practise blocking falls, neat and designed not to hurt too much. But he was slower than Yaku, not as good at getting back on his feet, and by the time he’d finished, the others were leaving.

Scooting to the changing room to pick up his bag, he heard the sound of rain drumming on the roof, and reached inside for his tracksuit bottoms.  If he hurried, he could catch the bus home.

“Bedhead, huh?”

Hashimoto and Ishida were idling against the door, both watching him intently. Instinctively, Kenma’s eyes flicked to the space between them, checking to see if anyone else was there, but there was no other sound, or movement, and he figured everyone had gone.

“Maybe,” Kenma mumbled. “I dunno.”

“So why doesn’t yours get all mussed up, Kozume?” Ishida asked.

“Uh...” He pulled his face into a frown, affecting confusion in the hope they’d laugh at his dumbass innocence and leave him alone.

But they weren’t laughing. Both stepped towards him, and Kenma who knew his best option was just to shy away and dodge for the door, found himself stuck because he was still putting his trousers on.

“If you and Kuroo are at it so hard that his hair looks like a bird’s nest, then why is yours so tidy.”

“We’re not -” He shut his mouth because why did he have to explain anything, and with hands not quite trembling finished putting on his trousers.

“He doesn’t do anything,” Hashimoto said. “Just like volleyball. I bet he lies there and lets Kuroo do the work.”

Picking up his bag, still pretending he didn’t know what they were on about, Kenma headed for the door. He’d have to pass the pair of them, but as long as he didn’t meet their eyes, they’d assume he was scared and leave him alone.

“Not so fast.” Hashimoto grabbed his arm, pulling Kenma closer. With his other hand, he ran his fingers through his hair. “Not tangled at all,” he said softly, and then wiped his hand on Kenma’s sleeve. “Greasy, though.”

Heaving in a silent breath, Kenma met his tormenter’s eyes. “I need to get my bus.”

Ishida laughed, and moved up behind him. “No, you need to listen to your upperclassman, little shadow.”

“Greasy hair. Got it.  I’ll have a shower at home,” Kenma replied in a dead voice. His mind was on his bus, and if he hurried, he might just get it. Kuro would be there waiting for him, eager to know what had happened at club, although he’d hide it, and ask casually as if it wasn’t at all important.

“What sort of senpais would we be if we didn’t help?” whispered Hashimoto.

With a sudden surge of violence, he seized Kenma by the scruff of his shirt and shoved him forwards, towards the bathrooms.

For one awful moment (he could feel the fear clenching at his gut) Kenma thought they were going to force him to shower. He imagined them stripping him off and making him stand under the cold shower. He tried, in that split-second, to think up ways to escape, plan the best strategy when he was one and they were two, and two boys who were taller, broader and far, far nastier.

But instead they thrust him against the wall by the sinks. Ishida, still laughing, turned on the tap and started to lather up the soap.

“Let’s clean you up, Kozume. Make you pretty for Kuroo.”

He struggled. Despite knowing it was hopeless, Kenma lashed out with his hand, aiming for Hashimoto’s chest but the taller boy dodged and Kenma’s fingers connected with his arm. He furled them around Hashimoto’s wrist, digging in.

“The kitten’s scratching,” Hashimoto yelled, and wrenched free. 

Then in a move that surprised Kenma, because he’d never considered Hashimoto to be particularly fast, he grabbed both of Kenma’s wrists in one of his hands, and held them tight. His only option now was to kick, but Hashimoto was wise to this, and dodged the poorly aimed foot, laughing.

Ishida cupped Kenma’s face in his soapy hands, jerking his chin upwards, and spread the soap on his face. Not bothering to avoid the eyes, he then thrust his fingers through Kenma’s hair, rubbing the soap through every strand, every tress.

“Look, look!” he hooted, lifting and twisting the hair up with his hands. “I can make him look like Kuroo!”

“Aww, a Tetsurou- kouhai. A Kuroo-kun,” Hashimoto crooned. He bent down, his mouth close to Kenma’s ear. “Is this why he likes you? A little version of himself that he can dress up and make pretty?”

The soap was stinging his eyes, and the stabbing pain in his arms, as Hashimoto tightened his grip, left him weaker than before. But Kenma knew he had to get away, had to escape even if they wrenched his arm out of its socket. He didn’t like the look on Ishida’s face, the calculating cruelty that had been bubbling ever since Kuro had taken his place on the team, now boiling over to inflict maximum humiliation on someone weaker.

Turning his head slightly, he caught Hashimoto’s eye. He was in class three, average so dependent on good references from the school. “Let me go,” Kenma muttered. “I won’t tell.”

Something about his tone must have worked, or maybe it was the realisation that this could escalate, for Hashimoto loosened his grip and shoved Kenma away from him. His breathing was heavy, the smile no longer in place.

“Leave,” he spat. “And there’s no point in you coming back, Kozume. Whatever your fucking twat of a senpai says, you’re not a Setter, and you won’t make the team, again.”

Seeing Ishida unwilling to give up the game just yet, Kenma grabbed his bag and fled.

He wasn’t one for running, having neither athleticism or stamina. But he’d missed his bus and didn’t want to hang around, so he sped back home, past the street vendors, sticking to the bus route because at least that way was brightly lit and he wouldn’t have to worry.

When he’d been running for a quarter of an hour, and his lungs were fit to burst, Kenma came to a halt. There was no sign of Hashimoto or Ishida, and he knew they wouldn’t bother with him now. Ishida’s temperament was well known to them all. Volleyball was supposed to be a club activity that controlled the rage inside of him. But Kuro had arrived and taken his place, being taller, fitter and better, despite the year’s difference in their age. Now Ishida sat on the sidelines, complaining that the kouhais had it easy.  Kuro, making friends easily, and then bringing along his own kouhai, must have rankled more than Kenma had realised.

Hashimoto was a different matter. A third year and desperate to play, but in the last practise match, the coach had pulled him off, saying he wanted to try something new, and Kenma had shuffled onto the court. He’d stayed on ‘til the end of the match, seeing connections, working out what the opposing players would do. Nekoma had been trailing; with Kenma as Setter, they won.

In the aftermath of the match, when Hashimoto had refused to acknowledge Kenma’s presence, Kuro had kicked off. He hadn’t laid a hand on the Vice-Captain, but he’d questioned him, demanding that he recognise Kenma’s ability.

The disrespect was clear. It didn’t matter that Hashimoto’s attitude had sucked, that almost everyone else had congratulated Kenma (Ishida hadn’t, instead he’d remained sullen in the corner) Kuroo Tetsurou had confronted a senpai and been suspended for a week.

Releasing a hefty sigh, Kenma caught sight of himself in a shop window. He smiled wryly. Ishida had done a good job on the hair, teasing it into spikes, sticking it with soap until each strand defied gravity. He stared closer, noting that he really did look like Kuro, and for the first time wondered if his friend did it deliberately, and the bedhead was just a self-deprecating joke.

Slouching into his jacket, he walked home, taking his time, and not even bothering to play on his phone.

 

***

“Missed ya last night,” Kuro said.

“Missed the bus, and Mum had got me a new game,” Kenma replied, not explaining further. He’d rushed into the house, ducking below the hedge so Kuro wouldn’t see him, then he’d washed out the soap in his hair. After that he’d gazed at himself in the mirror, wondering about the black curtain he allowed himself to be shrouded in. He’d liked hiding, loving the anonymity, but maybe now he’d been noticed, it was time to change. Anonymity only worked when no one noticed you, after all.

“Anything happen last night?”

Kenma shook his head.

“Need me to liven things up, doncha?” Kuro said, smirking a little as he teased a spike of his hair across his forehead. He frowned. “Where’s your kitbag? Haven’t you got practise this afternoon?”

“Uh ...” Kenma swallowed. He didn’t want to tell Kuro what had happened, ‘cause he knew if he found out, he’d do more than argue with Hashimoto. He’d use his fists, punching out revenge and fury in Ishida’s face. He’d say he had to do it, because no one picked on his friends, that the pair of them had it coming, no matter how old they were.

And that would scupper Kuro’s chance of remaining on the team and becoming Captain.

“No skipping,” Kuro said. “I’m back on Monday, and want to see your toss.”

“I’m thinking about not -” Kenma stopped, trying to work out how to phrase it.

“Can’t let them drive you out, Kenma,” Kuro murmured. He placed a hand on Kenma’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze and a small caress on the cheek with his thumb. “Were you gonna tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Yaku called me. Said Hashimoto gave you a hard time. ‘Cause of me, I guess, and he’s jealous of you, obviously. Making cracks about ... ‘us’.”  He couched the word in apostrophes. When it came down to it, ‘us’ was too small a word to describe them, and also too large, ‘cause ‘us’ encompassed everything.  “It’s the way those types of guys get their kicks,” he finished.

“It doesn’t matter,” Kenma said, shrugging. “I don’t care what they say.”

“D’you like volleyball?”

“S’okay.”

Kuroo pursed his lips and flipped his hair away from his eyes. “If Hashimoto wasn’t there, would you enjoy it more than ‘okay’?”

“Uh ... I dunno ...yeah...maybe.”

Kuro said no more, but started to walk to the bus stop.

 _D’you like volleyball?_ Such a simple question. The answer should have been simple, too. A yes or no, but it was more complex than that and both of them knew it. Kuro liked volleyball, and Kenma liked Kuro. Yet recently, he’d begun to like being part of a team.

“Where you going?” Kuro called out.

“Forgot my bag,” Kenma replied, breaking into a skippy type of run, ungainly with his uncoordinated limbs.

“Hurry up. Bus’ll be here soon.”

 “Tell it to wait, will you?” he shouted. Flipping his hair out of his eyes, he studied Kuro and returned the beaming smile with one of his own.

As he ran, he pondered Yaku calling Kuro to let him know what had happened. That realisation gave wings to his feet as he sped towards home.

Kenma had others watching his back, others who liked him. Now all he had to do was to accept that, and step out of Kuro’s shadow.


End file.
